Literature & Arts
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We often mistake composure for calm. We see a placid surface and assume a still depth. But in Angela Merkel’s story, her famed restraint was not the absence of feeling; it was the vessel that held it. Reading her memoir Freedom, what strikes me is not her patience, but the potent friction that patience concealed
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Poem by Maq Masi Māyā’s illusion leads the mind astray, What seems so true soon fades away. Moh grips the present in a silent hold, While Lobh dreams futures bought and sold. Kām is thirst, a restless stream, No wave can quench its aching dream. Krodh strikes blind when will is denied, And Ahankār shrinks
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Poem It is the worst animal, and the best,Born with mind, yet ruled by chest. It loves the friend, betrays with ease,Speaks of truth, then weaves deceits.Welcomes guests, then bolts the gate,Grants forgiveness, fuels the hate. It shelters birds, then snaps their wing,Feeds with care, then kills to cling.Strokes the lamb, then draws the blade,Gives
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Life is both the simplest of truths and the deepest of mysteries. An animal does not wrestle with the question of how to live. It is born, it breathes, it dies — a circle drawn quietly in time and space. We, too, are born and die, yet between those two points we weave countless meanings.
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The night was a fragile thing, a thin veil of darkness held together only by the sound of his voice. For Vaishali, these endless conversations with Aryan were not a luxury; they were oxygen. Each word was a stitch suturing a wound that threatened to reopen at the slightest silence. Her voice, usually so soft,
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– Maq Masi Open your shop with the morning light, and close it with care when falls the night. Punctual hands build trust each day, a promise of service in steady display. Keep every shelf in order and clean, let freshness and clarity always be seen. Plan ahead, restock on time, preventing loss is profit’s
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Vaishali’s soul was forged in two different fires. The first was the gentle, sun-drenched warmth of the countryside, where a poor agrarian girl grew wild and free among camels and buffalo, her heart shaped by rivers and hills. She knew the language of birds and the secrets of herbs; her world was honest, hard, and
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He was a man of code, not creed. Aryan’s world was built on a foundation of verifiable data, a universe where every effect had a traceable cause. For him, belief was not a premise to be accepted, but a conclusion to be earned—the final product of a rigorous audit of the evidence. His philosophy was
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By Maq Masi The tapestry of Western and Eastern cultures often presents a fascinating contrast. In the West, the threads are often woven with individuality, privacy, and personal choice. Homes are sanctuaries, visits are pre-arranged, and a closed door signals a boundary to be respected. In other parts of the world, the fabric is different.
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(A cry from beneath the wreckage—unignorable, eternal.) I am the questionburied under the weight of your answers—the one you silenced with fire,the voice smothered in dust. My body is a ruin,my breath a ragged hymn,yet still, I whisper: Why do your hands build only graves?Why does your peace taste like poison? I am the child
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